Coming to terms with us.

Us. It’s an innocuous little word, isn’t it? Meaning two, together, joined somehow, whether by friendship or work or family…

In my case, I never realised that there was an us. I thought it was me. Me and my voices that hurt, belittled, derided and abused.

I feel sorry that I didn’t understand earlier that I was in a collective, four wrapped into one. I wish I had learned that I was not alone, in the strangest of senses, far earlier.

I am, of course, referring to me, the younger ones (14 and 15) and nineteen.

It’s become very much apparent that in going to therapy, I have deprogrammed these so-called hostile voices into real, distinct personalities. I have learned that to shout at them provokes a hurt, terrified reaction- much like shouting at me does the same.

I don’t fight them now. We talk to each other, and we do sometimes still argue, but it’s the sort of arguing that takes place between families. I have asked them about things we want to do, choices we have made, and where to go next.

This is what changed when we made our joint decision about what to do, three weeks ago or a little more, when the Dutchman walked back into our lives and turned 14’s head. She was the first to fall, the first to point out to us how we really felt about things. Listening to her would have been wise then, but to start with I reacted as I would before realising that I was multiple, and tried to tell myself that I knew best.

Eventually, we had the conversation about J and the Dutchman. Endurance, distance, waiting… but such fun whilst there? Or the vlinders, the fire, the rush and openness of someone I was good friends with?

Sadly I had lost that spark with J this year. It had been present all last year, the year where I ran continually to him and he let me stay near. I wrote about him with such tenderness, because it was there. This year, I have had to run off memories and scrambled Skype calls and a week-long silence. The younger ones are so triggered by silence. 15 in particular can’t stand it, and she does go down really hard when these things happen.

Asking the younger ones what they really thought that evening on the couch was like fighting a war in my head. 19 was trying not to get involved, although secretly wanting me to just make up my mind already, as she didn’t want to be with J as much as she wanted to be with the Dutchman. 14 was, like I said, head over heels, and fifteen knew that she was confused. She’d sneaked her head out and talked to J a couple of times, and enjoyed herself, but she really enjoyed all the fun she’d had with the Dutchman. She didn’t like the time when J had got angry at the traffic when we were in the car with him that time, and she knew that I loved J too.

With all that in mind, I had to choose for myself. I really really didn’t want to hurt anyone. I wanted this to be a choice made with time and patience. However, the more time I spent with the Dutchman, the more I knew that the choice would have to be made soon. The spark was being kindled, and it was certainly a fire.

Choosing was all of us involved at once. I knew personally that I wanted something that had been in plain sight for two years, but never really realised what it truly meant.

All of us wanted this. All of us were united when we bridged that gap, and cast our lot in favour of a fire that was beginning to blaze.

 

We have never been so united before over anything else.

Mayday warnings. (Guess what, TW. Stay safe folks.)

Hello again all…

I am so sorry I managed to, yet again, vanish off the face of the earth. I’ve been having a pretty hard time. I haven’t even been keeping up with my journal.

I’ve realised why my voices have wanted me to kill myself in May.

Big step forward, I hear you say, and yes it is… a huge step. It all started when I took my puppy for a walk and began to have a conversation with the ‘it’ voice of the dark passenger.

We sat on a tuft of dry grass, I threw handfuls of it for the puppy which she chased. The it voice wasn’t screaming its usual deluge of vitirol. Instead, I was having a conversation with something that was acting like a scared, naughty child and then BOOM-

I’m eight years old or thereabouts. I’m sitting at a table with three naughty boys, the worst in the class. They pinch my belongings and hide them, empty pencil shavings in my hair and on my work, they call me names and hide my precious glasses, without which everything becomes a blur.

The teacher watches and laughs and blames me for their behaviour. I’m only rescued from that table when my mother, mortified that nothing is being done to protect me, goes round to her classroom after school ends. She’s met with indifference from my uncaring teacher, and a justification for splitting me up from my friends and putting me with the class bullies: she’s weird, she deserves it.

The it voice then chose that moment to point out that it had been born on that table with those three horrible boys.

I’m not surprised, then, that quite often I felt like I was dealing with a naughty upset child… because I was. I think I was dealing with soundbites from three nasty little boys that my traumatised brain had classed as a voice. Now I know what it is, I’ve learned to treat it firmly but gently. It’s pretty much vanished now. It’s dormant and quiet and sleepy, benign and un-frightening now. I did an interview with a girl who was training to be a psychologist, and explained what I’d done with the it voice and how much the voice had changed since I engaged it and started asking it questions like that. She was amazed and pleased for me, as was Dr K, and I felt the glow of pride there for myself, too.

The next big event that has happened is working my timeline out and understanding why May is so hard. It’s a trauma anniversary, but I’m sure I’ve wondered about that somewhere in my journal, then dismissed it as I couldn’t think of anything bad that had ever happened to me then.

Whilst with Dr K at therapy, I let her know about the it voice and about my continuing manicy feelings. I said I was feeling anxious a lot and frightened, and that I didn’t know why. Dr K asked me about May again. She reminded me that I was very ill last May but I was ok now, doing a lot better, able to do more and see further into my future than this time last year. She’s right, that’s true. Last year, I was only able to to a thing a day and to keep my schedule for living that the hospital had given me.

I’d been wondering about something all week though, and wanted to know why I was fixating on it so much. I was wondering about the boyfriend I’d picked up at Spring Harvest, an Eastertide Christian event I used to go to when I was younger. I hallucinated pretty badly there, seeing Jesus and angels and all manner of things that should have been reported to a mental health worker. I even heard the ‘Voice of God’- pretty sure now that it was a mania-induced hallucination. Anyway…

Dr K mentioned something about Spring Harvest and my anxious, manic feelings and suddenly something clicked.

I was fourteen when I met Ash. I was on the rebound from my first ever, fairly fantastic boyfriend, and I was so lonely and feeling so unloved that when Ash asked me out I said yes. I went to visit him a little while after we’d gone home from Spring Harvest- he came to visit me first, behaving and sounding like the perfect boyfriend, telling me that I was special and that I needed his love to feel better from my previous boyfriend. So, going to visit Ash at his house was exciting and I was so, so hoping that I would, at last, feel like I was moving on.

What happened was very different.

I was going to bed, after a day of meeting Ash’s friends, seeing the church he went to, meeting his bandmates and his parents. I was pleased with how it had all gone and how happy I was and just, really, the fact that he was so nice. I supposed that kindness was a whole Christian thing- maybe I was lucky now. My old boyfriend had supposedly been a Christian, but I thought maybe he wasn’t so Christian as he would question his faith and try new things. He would push the boundaries- but I liked it. Maybe, this new relationship would become like that…

I was snuggling down in bed but my insides were jumping with excitement. I knew he was across the hall and I knew he could just come over to my room any time, and I wasn’t above a bit of fun before we slept. Actually though, what I wanted most in the world was for me to go to sleep in the arms of the man I loved.

Suddenly the door opened and Ash was standing there. I looked up in surprise. He sneaked in, locked the door, and my feeling of excitement drained into a clump of something else in my stomach. I asked him in a whisper what he was doing there, and he said he wasn’t happy we were apart and he would stay with me. I relaxed a bit. Clearly he just wanted that hug, the same as I did.

The problem was, he didn’t.

The problem was, he started kissing me and trying to move my hands and I wasn’t happy about that, but then he shoved his hands into my pyjama pants and it was hurting and I was asking him to stop and my hands were up against his chest-

I heard footsteps up the stairs and I was so afraid they’d come in and find me and I wanted him to stop so so bad-

He got out of bed in a hurry and there was a knock on the door. He went to open it. I felt so so embarrassed, so ashamed, so upset and revolting. His mother was there, asking him to leave the room. He wouldn’t go.

So of course, she brought his father up and he still wouldn’t leave the room. Two grown adults could not make one teenage boy leave the room, and they had the door open the whole time I was sitting in bed, covers up round my neck, legs pulled into my body as tightly as possible. I was obviously to blame here. They hadn’t addressed a word to me since they had come upstairs. Clearly they were disgusted with me.

The next day, my mother and father had somehow found out about Ash coming into my bedroom, and I was absolutely mortified. I was upset, too, because I didn’t have a clue what had happened the night before and I felt dirty and bad. I had clearly sinned. God was clearly punishing me. Because men always need reining in and the women have to be responsible for that and I hadn’t stopped him, it was my fault I was hurt. I was also at fault for sacrificing more of my purity- who wants to marry a whore?

What I understood in that flash of memory, whilst telling Dr K, was that it was at May half-term that I went to see Ash.

MAY HALF-TERM.

I was so unhappy for all these years in May because I was violated for the first time ever in May half-term.

This week is May half-term.

That’s not been the only thing that’s been the problem.

I had three voices- he, she, and it. It  has become an ally, something gentle and quiet and sleepy. He and She were still angry and volatile… until last session with Dr K.

We learned that my She voice is actually angry, frightened, upset fourteen-year-old me, trapped in my own head and screaming for Ash to stop hurting her.

Dr K and I got her out of her little hiding-place in my head. I felt strange, like I was having a flashback, and then suddenly my arm was moving of its own accord- like it used to do once long ago when I would self-harm and not feel like I was in control of my own body. My arm started to write words, and Dr K and I watched it as it spelled out:

STOP IT.

Then:

THANK YOU.

I was shocked. Dr K asked what needed to stop, and then suddenly my arm reached out again:

HE HAS TO STOP TOUCHING ME.

We were both shocked, I think, but she kept writing, and she told us the story of that night when I lost trust in men and started to believe that I was sullied and revolting and that God hated me.

Dr K told me and her that we are not to blame for the adults blaming us, for the horrible boy who sexually assaulted us, for the fact that for years I was uncomfortable with what happened but still, STILL blamed myself.

I was exhausted and sleepy after the she voice had her say. Dr K was so proud of me, and worried that I had to teach later on.

I’m a mixture of everything. I still don’t want to admit that the she voice is me, but since I confronted her, she’s quiet and sad, but not that flaming ball of anger that she once was. She’s me now, and that weird schism in my brain has mended. I can feel it there. The wall is torn down, the split gone. Maybe now I can heal better, knowing that two of my voices are actually hurting parts of me that need just as much love as the rest of me.

I am also disturbed that I didn’t recognise that two of my voices were actually parts of me. Also, the arm moving by itself, the writing alone… That’s DID symptoms right there, and I’ve been thinking to myself that I definitely didn’t have DID. Has anyone got any advice for me here? I’m so confused and I would love to know what’s been going on.

At least I am more whole now… although…

Maybe I have been more fractured than I thought.

Crashing down.

So the inevitable crash came. I’m sorry I didn’t blog properly in so long- truth be told, I’ve been struggling since before the new year began and I’m so exhausted. Nightmares or lucid dreams plague me and I toss and turn, and wake up almost every hour to check if the door is still shut and he’s not bursting through it.

I went to therapy yesterday still trying to pretend to myself I was ok, when my Moodscope scores have been saying the opposite for a while. No scores have been above 50 this whole month. I’m drained and I need rest. Dr K has been concerned about me for the past three weeks and she let me just cry yesterday in her office. I sobbed almost the whole time I was with her and that hasn’t happened since the early days of therapy when all I could do was cry. I felt so dissociative and I told her so, and I told her that I felt a lot of the time like I was pretending again. I read a blog post recently from Shedding Light on Darkness (thank you so much for writing that) that said something about lying to yourself. I’d been telling myself that I was fine with working straight after therapy on a Thursday and that I was processing it all, when really it comes out in dreams and I saw one of the weird shadows again, plus I hear the voics more regularly at the minute. I was falling down out of the sky with no parachute and trying to pretend I was flying.

It’s like all the stuff I’ve been trying to work on, to process through my system, has been being neatly unpackaged for an hour a week, given some thought, and then I’ve tried to stick it back into the box and leave therapy. Problem is, the minute you give memories and feelings like those any attention, they gain a life of their own and come crashing through your system, so I’ve had some horrible dreams recently, some horrible bad day, thoughts of self harm and suicide. I’m rambling in my speech again, and I can’t always think of the word I need to describe something important. I called the hall table the ‘ front desk’ the other day. Nobody thought it was a warning sign, they thought it was funny.

This is still a huge problem. I wrote a ‘How to Handle your PTSD-stricken daughter’ letter to my parents. I think Dad is getting it but the problem is he works a long way away from home all day, so basically it’s mum who takes care of me and she has no clue what she’s doing. Despite that letter, despite all the things I tell her on a day to day basis about PTSD and abusive relationships, despite the sliding scale I drew of my moods…

Yesterday after therapy, Dr K and I were drawing up a plan of action. She was worried about how unwell I was and how thin and gaunt I’d become. She wanted me to have a rest, but I knew how that would go down (and in fact, how it has gone down,) with my mum. When I left therapy I was daunted by the size of the task ahead: tell my mum and sister just how bad things were, ask for a week off, try and get a lock put on my door.

I told mum how bad I felt in a heartfelt cry for help, tears running down my cheeks and a huge pain in my chest. She blinked, looked at me, and said, “well I’m teaching now, and you will have to teach your second class.”

Then she walked off.

She wasn’t even going to bring it up that evening. She was going to try to jolly me along and make me smile again so I could go back to being the smiley smiley girl everyone wants to see.

I couldn’t deal with that. So me, my dad and her had a conversation about what the problem was, and I’m still getting nowhere with her.

It’s the same sort of stuff all over again. “Working makes you happy. Working gives you a purpose. Not working makes you depressed. Work is a distraction. Work is not what made you crash last time. Believe in yourself.”

So many problems with all that.

Working like I am doing at the minute does not make me happy. I hate it. I hate Mondays with a passion. I hate Tuesdays more. I drag myself through the working week like I have no legs and I can’t walk. I don’t sleep well Wednesday nights then I’m forced to get up on Thursday to get to therapy, which is the only highlight, and then basically I’m slamming all the tough emotions and feeling straight back into the box to teach again.

I don’t really want to teach for life. I’m not interested in examining dance any more, and I want to write as a career now, more than anything. I’m done with teaching already but I need it to be able to fund the set-up of a life with J maybe, or the start of my massage business. Not working does not make me depressed- I feel that actually having time to process all the tough emotions that happen to emerge after therapy HELPS. I’m more productive afterwards if I’m able to feel bad and curl up in a ball with the dog. Work is a huge distraction- so big that it takes up my whole fucking life and leave me with nothing else at the end of the day. I still have a limited amount of energy, and it’s all wasted on work and not on self-care. I’m so drained at the end of a day that I can barely muster the energy to call J.

Work is precisely what made me crash last time. I am so on edge and exhausted, and I feel like working has heaped strain on my head harder than not doing so would. I don’t mind if my mum used work as an escape, but I don’t want to do that any more because that’s what sent me into hospital last time. I’ll be there again soon if I don’t do something about it.

All the self-belief in the world will not help if I commit suicide (or attempt again) because I am simply doing too much to process what I’m digging up in therapy. I’m not going to lie to myself any more and pretend I can compromise and just nod my head and go along with whatever anyone says other than me because that’s what I did with him. Now look where I am. Mired in severe PTSD, exhausted, and nearly without options.

I want to be with J more than anything. I miss him so much, and I need his reassuring presence. Even just having him in the room with me sometimes improves my mood. I want sleep that heals, not that fills me full of nightmares. I want no voices in my head any more, they’re scaring me again. I also want to be listened to- still not having the lock put on my door because I self-harmed in the past, and regardless of the fact that several times I actually self-harmed in public with no locked doors, I still don’t get my wishes respected. I need a lock. I need to feel safe. I hate having to change in my room because there is no lock on the door and I feel vulnerable, and it doesn’t matter how many times I ask mum to knock, she will still barge in uninvited and pretend she is surprised when I’m literally just out of the shower in a towel. I have no fucking privacy- I hide all my old journals, because she’d read them without a second thought despite the fact I’m an adult woman.

This all needs to change or I will keep crashing down and someday I’ll burn out, and there will just be a shell left of me.

Dr K and I are working on all this and I think that we need to have a meeting with my mum at some point. She’s scared and cynical of Dr K. She says Dr K is planting the idea that I should never work in my head. Mum actively tried to get me some work last night with MY massage business that I haven’t even set up yet!! She was trying to book me an appointment to massage somebody on Saturday at two! I teach all day on a Saturday, and the massage business is MY business, not hers. I am so tired of trying to do what I want only for it to get subverted by my mum. The lock is a sticking point and so is this. I told her I couldn’t deal with any more work, yet here she is trying to set up more. It’s not just to build a future for me, it’s so I don’t feel any messy emotion near her and I’m that happy smiley FAKE girl ALL THE TIME. JUST LIKE HE WANTED.

Enough is enough. I’m taking the week off this week or I will end up in hospital. I’m exhausted and just need space, and I need to be understood.

Otherwise, I’ll end up back on the mental health ward again and it will be another three weeks before I’m allowed out.

Interlude: Father, and his day.

TW- I know for some folk, Fathers’ Day is a massive trigger and hurts a lot to think about. If you don’t feel safe, don’t worry about reading this. I’m only saying nice stuff, but sometimes that hurts too. ❤

 

Oh, daddy. You’re asleep in that chair again, or watching Formula One with me, or playing with the puppy. Maybe you’re mowing the lawn on Saturday, or maybe you’re annoyed because you were trying to fix that database and it’s screwed up again.

It doesn’t matter. If I wake you, or call you, or text you, you will answer.

I was sixteen, the first time I truly realised how amazing your love for me was. Of course, I’d been told the stories of you lifting my infant form to the curtains, to the sink, the flowers, the windows, and telling me their names, but it never really sunk in til we took Terry for a walk and you told me you would rather me ring you than cut myself. I was shocked. You do love deeply, and you would rather use ten words to express something than a hundred, but you told me that and I knew you meant it instantly.

It happened again after I broke up with that narcissist, my ex. I remember feeling destroyed in the worst possible way but you were still there to hold me close and tell me you loved me. Even if he didn’t, you did. Then later on that holiday, I got a text from my ex telling me he loved me, after all the shit he’d put me through. I know that your anger made me realise what I’d been being force-fed since being 15 was wrong. I was angry too, but secretly proud of your anger. It meant you cared.

You even showed up in the porch to collect the things he was returning to me, and I am glad you stood there with your stern Norman countenance. My personal 1066 elite guard, mon papa.

I had my breakdown, and you were there for me. You kept telling me you believed in my dancing and you believed I would recover from my injury, and I knew that you meant it. I was drowning in voices and despair and you kept trying to grab my hand to save me.

When I found J, you and he got on like a house on fire. It was nothing to do with him sucking up to you- this was true, real, mutual friendship and appreciation. It was the most lovely thing to see after all the hurt my ex had fired your way. J’s honesty was beautifully refreshing and it made you respond to him the way you respond to family. You are sociable and chatty when the mood is on you, and that’s how you were with the new man in my life.

When I crashed and burned and broke again, there you were. Again. You visited me every night without fail in hospital, and you did crosswords with me and hugged me when I cried. I am here because you wanted me to win over the PTSD and bipolar and voices and terror. You wanted me to win, along with another universe of people, and I’m here.

Thank you is not enough, but it is a start. Thank you for accepting my panic attacks and the voices and standing by your bruised and battered daughter. You love me, and that’s enough some days. Thank you.

From your loving child.

Interlude- Crawling feelings of shame, scars, intense self-loathing and suddenly a ray of bright hope.

My skin was crawling. I wanted to scrub my skin raw- so I did. I stung a little in the shower, sun burn on my back smarting against the bath sponge. Still the crawling. Was I unwell?

But there was no crawling during the day. The crawling started the minute I lay in bed.

I still sleep in the same room I was in when my ex insisted, as there was nobody in, that we had sex on the floor. I remember feeling completely uncomfortable with it and hating the fact that he picked then and there, on MY floor in MY room in my PARENTS’ house. And now, as I lay there, I realised- the crawling was body memories.

Now there is no more crawling, but I’ve had a very heavy period that’s sucked the energy out of me. I realised that I was suffering because I once had sex in a room that was meant to be my sanctuary- well, not for him. He ruined it.

But I am taking it back.

Soon, there will be a new bed. Soft and wide and inviting. There will be new cupboards, wardrobes, new storage spaces. Places for me to put my shoes so I see them properly. I’m finally having my room redone, and I will soon feel totally at home in my new, calm place, just for me.

I was looking in a mirror last week. Standing there, hurting so badly it made me want to cry. Instead of the usual muscular slim girl I see, I saw a fat scarred freak in a bikini she didn’t suit. The red scars on my legs gleamed, mocking me. My body, in the dim lights of the chop changing room, looked huge. I placed my hands over my eyes and I tried to ignore the dark passenger. That day, I had to take an extra dose of promazine to shut them up.

The upside?

I tried on the bikini at home and loved it. There was that muscular shape I’ve always known, and the bikini looked lovely. I was pleased that I had bought it and hadn’t freaked out. I vowed to myself to never call myself fat again, when I’m not. Most people call my skinny, if anything. I rarely get comments on my lack-of-weight now. I used to be teased about my stick-thin legs, frizzy hair and glasses. Now, I’m proud of the body I’ve honed through hard work.

I talked to Dr K today about all of this. She was concerned that the shame of the rape is still affecting me this way, and that I still suffer body memories. She was also saddened about my hatred of my scars. She has been polite and professional about them, and also very reassuring. I am not scarred badly- my skin heals lightning fast – but I can still see those telltale white lines that point out my fading addiction. I talked to her today about the nature of my self-harm: repress all emotion, it is all too overwhelming. Feed the dark passenger. Kill yourself.

Right now, I’m ecstatic because I am FINALLY going back to America to be with J, for nearly a month! I decided to book the flights and not give a damn what anyone else thought. I have the issues I’ve just written about, it’s true, but I am ok. I am getting through this. I have J to see and look forward to. I am going to see him for the first time since February! I can’t wait to hold him close again. He has to know I love him, and one day I will manage to say it properly. Not a scared little whisper, but I want to look into his eyes to tell him. He deserves that.

The voices? Right now, the dark passenger is drugged up, sedated. I am too, I’m very tired. I am staying in a different room in the house whilst I’m having my room done and I can’t wait to feel safe again.

 

Admitted Part Ten- more journal.

I felt like my journal was a lifeline in hospital. TRIGGER WARNING- I had a flashback and I write about certain things that might upset fellow PTSD-ers.

 

25th/26th April, 00:34

Updates on life! I haven’t written in a little while.

So last night at 10:00 pm, (meds time), I got restless and upset. The dark passenger was on at me to bash my head against a brick wall until I lost consciousness, and they were angry that I had no blade to hurt myself with. They told me I wasn’t allowed to sleep, and they made me pace up and down until Matron spotted me. Rocker stopped to help first, then Matron came to sort me out along with Sunbeam and Foxglove, two of the other patients. I had to wait for what felt like ages with my brain on fire whilst Matron finished off what she was doing, then took me into the ladies’ lounge.

I felt like I was going crazy again. My head was burning with the weight of the three voices. I was strung-out and exhausted, ready to flip. I did cry, I did shake, but Matron explained she was going to give me some promazine. I freaked a bit, seeing as that stupid psych tried to stick me on it before. Thing is, when you get explained what the drug does, what the rare side effects might be, and you need help, you swallow that shit down and chase it with water, then wait and hope.

Oh god. Best night’s sleep EVER. Like since America sort of good. As if my J was lying beside me. In fact, J called and we had a great chat, and he laughed when I said I felt tipsy! It was great to hear him feeling better. Also, Mr Robot called whilst drunk to tell me I was awesome, and to please survive. I promised him I would. I told R all about my day when she rang, too. R called first, then Mr Robot, then J, then I crashed.

This morning, I felt brave and calm when I woke up and I talked to Rita the Coach Driver about what my ex did to me, but I think I pushed myself a bit too much. I had this terrible, terrible panic attack/flashback in the shower. I felt hands all over me again, was waiting to hear his voice, and the voices told me I would never be clean again after this. I scratched my skin so hard I left marks, and I had to run from the shower room back to mine. I was terrified and sobbing. I didn’t want the men on the ward to come anywhere near me, when usually I’m kind of ok with it.

One of the nurses came doing a check (they do them every hour) and she asked if I was ok. I told her what had happened and she said to get dressed adn come out of my room to try and calm down.

I threw my clothes on super fast and got out, and ended up talking to one of the nurses. She’s so sweet. I think she is either from Botswana or Nigeria, cause her voice reminds me of Ma Ramotswe. I let her know how freaked out and upset I was, and she talked to me until I felt calmer.

The rest of the day was spent with Pixie doing art, my amazing family (still doing art and they joined in) and I saw my friend Sunbeam again. Vincent Van Gogh had a flip-out at midday and it frightened me- we were all in the garden and he got loud and argumentative over Sunbeam’s phone, and I dropped my trowel and ran. PTSD is sometimes useful, it stopped me from being in a bad situation, but I was still frightened. I got better though by doing more art- Pixie came and let me know I could just keep going.

Tonight, I heard the dark passenger again. They’re pissed beyond reason that I asked for help like this. They still want me dead, adn I am still frightened about the future. Thing is, I have a lot of people rooting for me. J called tonight and said he was PROUD of me for being in hospital, because it’s the right place for me to be whilst I’m still struggling with all of this.

I also handed a pin back to its owner- a badge Van Gogh gave me. I gave it to the guy who owned it and he was pleased and surprised to have it back.

I am still worried. The dark passenger is still awake and I am too. I just want to cling to what J said tonight and the way he makes me feel. He filled me with happiness and made all my skin buzz with excitement. He makes me feel human, not like a frightened rabbit.

Ugh. Still not tired. Thanks, dark passenger.

I have a new journal after this dies out- there are so few pages! I can’t get over how much I have written.

OK, I’m going to try to sleep. I need it, but not sure I can. Gonna try and wind down with my other journal.

Admitted Part Nine- more journal.

I did carry on. Here is what I wrote.

 

25th April, 11:13.

Just did the psychology group- I feel fucking vindicated. People who have been cruelly abused are being given the diagnosis of BPD/EUPD.

Why is this archaic, victim-blaming, wooly-criteria-ed diagnosis STILL being given out to vulnerable people?! For Christ’s sake, do the psychs not see they are taking the place of the abuser and making everything OUR fault again?

“Because your personality is disordered, you were abused. Nothing will change you. You will always be in the ‘crazy pile’, you will always have unsuitable relationships. Really, you’re a fuck-up, but we don’t have enough actual solid criteria to fully diagnose this supposedly rare condition, but that doesn’t mean we won’t slap it on you and shove you full of drugs. Now take your fucking pill and shut up.”

That, right there, is abuse. This diagnosis should be put an end to, and realised for what it REALLY is- PTSD. If you were abused, dear Lord, it was NOT YOUR FAULT!

Why is that so hard to understand?!

The voices are a bit quieter right now. Fingers crossed they stay that way.